Woe to the Vanquished
by Wuchel1
Summary: Hersh finally tracks down The Man in a Suit and this time he's intent on not letting him get away again.
1. Chapter 1

**Woe to the Vanquished**

**Disclaimer: ** The characters of _Person of Interest_ don't belong to me; I'm just borrowing them with no intention of gaining any profit.

**Acknowledgments:**

A huge THANK YOU to my awesome beta **scully1138**. Seriously, thank you!

Also, a quick shout-out to **ShaolinQueen**, who more or less patiently listened to me whine and came probably pretty close to hopping onto the next flight in order to tie me to my desk, I bet.

Enjoy ...

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**Chapter 1**

The cold water felt heavenly on Reese's skin. Bent over the stainless steel sink he splashed two, three more handfuls of the cold liquid onto his face. The water dripping back down into the mat sink was tinted red, washing away the blood that was oozing from a cut to his right eyebrow and his nose - evidence of having previously been in some kind of skirmish or another.

He had been in time to save their latest Number from being shoved in front of an arriving subway train by what John assumed was now her ex-boyfriend. Finch had failed to mention, however, that said boyfriend carried a black belt in Kung-Fu, or some other kind of martial art. It wasn't like John couldn't handle any Bruce Lee wannabe, but he had to admit it just had taken him by surprise and the ex had gotten a few lucky punches in.

Knocking the Karate Kid out completely was – however very gratifying – maybe a little premature, John mused. Fusco would have had at least to work for his latest arrest instead of just showing up, slapping cuffs on the unconscious perp and consoling the distraught ex-girlfriend, who by the way, had not thanked John for his crude, yet effective intervention.

Granted, she didn't really have that much time to bestow her gratitude on Reese as Finch had thought it prudent for John to make a hasty retreat before he was forced to answer a few unpleasant questions. Reese had had no problem seeing the wisdom in Finch's suggestion of not attracting further attention and pulled a disappearing act Copperfield would have been proud of. He slipped into the nearest public restroom, trying to get rid of the most glaring indicators that he had just been an avid participator in a fight. At least the phrase _"You should see the other guy"_ wouldn't be a lie.

Supporting himself on both sides of the sink, John let the water drip off his face and ignored the stab of pain breathing caused his bruised, maybe even cracked, ribs.

He hadn't heard anyone opening the door, but the _click_ of the door being bolted was like a thunder clap inside the otherwise silent and empty restroom. John looked up into the mirror, its surface permanently fogged up by age. Leaning on the door and therefore blocking the only exit was Control's man, arms crossed over his chest.

_Hersh_ – John remembered Shaw calling him that last time John had seen him inside the empty "atomic reactor" where The Machine used to be, pointing guns at each other. That there was now a gun hidden somewhere within easy reach on Hersh Reese had no doubt, ready to dispense its fiery-hot metal projectiles long before John would have even a chance to reach for his Sig tucked securely into his waistband at his back.

They stared at each other for a few seconds before Reese slowly reached for a paper towel to dry off his dripping face, the aches of the previous fight pushed to the back of his mind.

At Reese's movement Hersh tensed, pushed himself off the door and stepped further into the room, and John noted with a little satisfaction that he still made sure to stay out of the reach of his target. He'd learned that lesson the hard way.

By the time John had dried off his face and slowly turned around Hersh's silenced gun was pointing straight at his chest. John leaned back, nonchalantly bracing himself against the sink, waiting and assessing the man opposite him. They had met at least three times before and each time Reese had managed to either keep or gain the upper hand. However by the looks of it this time Hersh was intent on not letting that happen again.

"Put your gun on the ground." Hersh said, his voice eerily as devoid of emotion as Reese's, his own gun never wavering from his target. Reese delicately reached behind his back, carefully extricating his gun from his waistband. He held the gun up between his thumb and forefinger for a few seconds before he hunkered down to place it on the floor in front of him, his eyes never letting Hersh out of his sight.

Reese straightened up, hands held raised at his side. They both knew the game. Hersh was making sure that Reese could pose no threat and Reese was playing for time as much as possible, while looking for a way out. So far, he had not found one. "Kick it over."

Reese complied, giving the gun a shove like it was a soccer ball. Hersh stopped its forward motion by stepping on it, but made no move to retrieve it. Yes, he had certainly learned to be careful around John Reese.

By the mirthless smile playing around Hersh's lips, he knew that John had hoped that by picking up the gun he would give John an opening for an attack. "Now, toss me your phone."

John again reached inside his coat, careful not to make a wrong move under the other man's watchful eye. He tossed his phone over to Hersh, who caught it one-handedly and promptly dropped it to the floor to stomp on it, the phone's display cracking with a crunch.

"We", Hersh said darkly, after he was satisfied that there was no one else listening in, "have some unfinished business."

John arched an eyebrow, his hands still raised at shoulder level. "I thought you just follow orders", he drawled softly, his expression void of any emotion, "not carry grudges."

The smile was back on the man's face, but this time he actually looked amused. "Who says these aren't my orders?"

Before John even had a chance to process what Hersh had just said the gun pointing at his chest bucked twice and two very powerful punches knocked the air out of his lungs, driving him backwards, his back painfully colliding with the sink, somehow ending up in a half-sitting, half-lying position against the wall between the restroom's two old sinks. Black spots were crowding his vision, but John gritted his teeth and tried to prop himself up off the floor. Breathing was a sheerly impossible task, and if his ribs had only been bruised - maybe cracked - before, they were definitely broken now.

He managed to push himself into a sitting position, gasping for air. Hot metal was pressed against his forehead, pushing his head back against the wall. The renewed surge of adrenalin pushed the encroaching darkness away as John stared up at the uncompromisingly hard face of Control's man. His need for oxygen momentarily forgotten, Reese knew that this was it. There was no way he could move fast enough to get a hold of the gun pressed to his forehead before the trigger was pulled. Besides, he rather doubted that he could get his body to heed his commands at the moment anyway.

Out of the corner of his eyes Reese saw something that caught his attention and at the same time let his heart sink - a dark, gleaming glass dome, covering a surveillance camera that was mounted on the ceiling, overlooking the anteroom of the restroom. John just looked at it, praying to whoever would be listening that it was only a dud, or not functioning.

"This is going to be quick." Hersh's low voice pulled John's attention back to the other man's impassive face. "How is that for mercy?"

John closed his eyes, the breath he tried to take hitching as pain stabbed through his chest, expecting it all to end with the feeling of white hot metal piercing his skull and searing its way through his brain matter any second now.

_Please, Harold, look away._

A loud bang reverberated through the confines of the restroom and for Reese everything went dark.

_To be continued …_


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: **Thank you all for your nice reviews!

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**Chapter 2**

"Mr. Reese, the police have been alerted. I believe Detective Fusco is quite capable of dealing with Mr. Palmer on his own now, and suggest you extract yourself out of the situation."

"Next time", Reese panted in reply, "I will make Fusco do the work for once."

Finch hadn't been able to find a video-feed that captured that particular part of the platform (most likely the reason Mr. Palmer had chosen that spot in the first place). But from what he'd been able to hear - and he briefly wondered whenever he'd gotten to be an expert at discerning the severity of a hand-to-hand fight by its noises alone - the Detective would not have been a match for their Number's ex-boyfriend. He listened as Reese handed off the perpetrator into the Detective's capable hands and decided that this was an opportune moment to make himself a fresh cup of Sencha green tea. He wandered over to their kitchenette area, Bear following him on his heels in hopes of puppy-dog-eyeing himself into a treat or two.

They returned to the computers about 10 minutes later. Bear trotted over to his doggy-bed, happily chowing down on the dog cookie he'd managed to procure. Finch carefully balanced a cup of tea on a saucer with one hand and a sandwich on a plate with the other. He hadn't had realized how hungry he'd been until his stomach had loudly grumbled at the sight of the food they kept at the kitchenette. Finch sighed and watched Bear contently chewing his treat, knowing full well that he'd been played like a fiddle by the dog.

_"Put your gun on the ground."_

A strange, rough voice came through the speakers and Harold's head snapped up. He hurried to his desk, setting his tea and sandwich aside and took his seat in front of his monitors. He re-established his - a little more than illegal - up-link to New York City's system of surveillance cameras in order to follow Reese's movements from the platform to his present whereabouts. It didn't take long to pick John Reese's tall frame out of the crowd on the video-feed and Harold noted that he did look a little banged up as he watched Reese disappear behind the door of a public restroom.

_"Kick it over."_

Finch hit fast-forward, the sound of metal sliding on tile filling the silence that had followed the voice Harold didn't recognize. Reese still hadn't said a word yet, and this worried Finch. His heart-rate sped up considerably as he recognized the figure on the video-feed that stealthily followed Reese into the restroom only two minutes after John had entered it. "Oh no."

After the initial shock Finch sprang into action, calling the Detective while desperately looking for a way to get eyes inside that restroom. "Detective." Finch said as Fusco answered his call after what had felt like an eternity. "I'm afraid Mr. Reese is in need of your assistance again."

Finch didn't really listen to the Detective's incredulous reply, swallowing hard as a flashing window popped up on his screen, accompanied by a soft beeping alarm.

CONNECTION LOST

With the connection to John's cell lost, he literally had no idea what was going on inside that restroom. His fingers flew over the keyboard, his eyes scanning the lines of information rapidly scrolling across his screen until he found what he was looking for. Hacking into the video-feed of the restroom's surveillance camera was a piece of cake, something Harold Finch didn't even have to think about. The contents of the monitor in front of him changed, displaying the grainy and slightly blurred feed from the small camera mounted at the ceiling and Harold stared at it, horrified. Even with the less than optimal properties of the feed he could see that Reese was being held at gun point by Control's goon.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat he interrupted the Detective's rant, his voice leaving no argument. "Detective, there is no time to explain. I need you to get up to the public restroom on ground level. Now!"

Finch watched Reese's lips move, but had no idea what was being said. Hersh had his back to the camera so Harold wasn't able to see his reaction and judge what was going to happened next.

Harold flinched in surprise as John's body jerked twice and was thrown back against the restroom's fixtures by an invisible force. He froze in front of his monitors, helplessly watching John's struggle to remain conscious.

By the sound of Fusco's rustling clothing, his heavy breathing, fast footfalls and yells for people to get out of the way he was closing in on Reese's position rapidly, but Harold feared not fast enough. _Now would be a good time, Detective._

Hersh closed the gap between the downed Mr. Reese, forcing John's head back by pressing the muzzle of his silenced gun to John's forehead. Reese looked up coldly at the gunman and that's when Harold stopped breathing.

So far, when Mr. Reese had gotten into a precarious situation Harold had only been able to listen, imagining the worst while waiting to hear from him that everything had turned out alright in the end. But now, actually being able to watch ... it was so much worse. Harold knew that what he was about to witness was an execution and there was not a damned thing he could do to stop it.

Harold knew immediately when John realized that they were being watched. For a second Reese looked straight at him through the camera, before closing his eyes, the tension dissipating from his body.

"No." whispered Harold. _No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. _The word repeated in his head over and over again in a continuous loop. He knew he should look away - that if he continued to watch he'd never be able to erase this moment from his mind, and that he'd be forever haunted by the memory and his inability to save his friend.

He jumped at the loud bang that echoed through the library. His long forgotten tea cup dropped to the ground with an equally loud crash, spilling its lukewarm and untouched contents all over the floor.

_To be continued …_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Detective Lionel Fusco had just been in the process of handing the semi-conscious perp, whose brief acquaintance with Wonderboy apparently hadn't agreed with him, over to a couple of unis when his cell chirped in his coat pocket.

Looking at its display and seeing the call originated from an Unknown Number he excused himself and hastened to find a somewhat private area to take the call. 'Unkown' usually meant either Wonderboy or the Professor calling and seeing that he'd just dealt with one of their messes, Lionel was both somewhat curious and at the same time wary of whatever this call was going to be about. Definitely not one dull moment with these two, he thought. He slid his finger over the screen to answer the call. "Yep."

It was Glasses and immediately from the harried sound of the usually level and enunciated voice as the man first began to speak, and the apparent loss of Glasses' indelible manners Fusco knew that something had terribly gone wrong and he'd bet a months pay that it involved Mr. Congeniality ... and he was right.

"Seriously?" Fusco asked, not quite sure if he should be incredulous or impressed, because this must be a new record. "He literally _just_ left. How in the world does he do it? I mean ... Seriously?"

Finch, however, was far from being in the mood of discussing his henchman's aptitude for getting into hairy messes, and by the increasingly worried and uncharacteristically frenzied tone of his voice Fusco knew he'd better shut up and listen to what Finch needed him to do.

Fusco turned around trying to remember in which direction Reese had made his hasty retreat, dropped his phone into his pocket and ran like a bat out of hell. He reached the ground level in record time - wheezing like an asthmatic - and feverishly looked for the public restroom Finch had mentioned. Spying a sign he pulled out his phone while sprinting towards it.

"Finch? I'm heading for the restroom near the south-east exit, is that the right one?" He came to a stop in front of the door, breathing heavily and still waiting for the well-spoken man to reply. "Finch?!"

Fusco checked the display to make sure the line was still open and pressed the device back to his ear again. He realized that the shit was already hitting the fan badly as what he had previously interpreted as static on the line had actually turned into words. Well, one word. Repeated over and over again. There was no time. This _had _to be the right restroom. Period.

Fusco didn't think, which was probably a good thing. He pocketed his phone, tore a fire extinguisher off the wall and using it like a battering ram ran for the door with a roar fueled by desperation. God only knew what he'd find on the other side.

_To be continued …_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The door burst open hitting the wall to its left with shattering force. For Lionel things were moving oddly fast and slow at the same time as his momentum propelled him further into the restroom's anteroom. For a split-second the thought that what he was doing was not just insanely crazy but also phenomenally stupid crossed his mind. But considering that the thought was about three seconds too late, he decided that disregarding his contemplations of being temporarily insane - locking the thought away for a deeper analysis later on - and concentrating on hitting the man with the gun trained on Wonderboy's forehead was his best course of action at the moment.

Obviously startled by Fusco's grand entrance the gunman turned, offering the side of his face as a perfect landing zone for the bottom of the fire extinguisher Fusco was still wielding as a battering ram. It connected with the man's jaw with a resounding crunch, blood and at least one tooth spurting from his mouth as the force of Fusco's blow spun him around before he dropped to the floor like a stone.

Fusco stood over the unconscious man, panting and still holding the extinguisher up, brandishing it like a weapon - and recognizing the man as the Fed who had shown up at the precinct almost a year ago, looking into the Corwin murder. He felt the urge to giggle like a madman, but with an effort Lionel managed to swallow down his hysterical relief that he was somehow still alive.

Dropping the fire extinguisher he first collected the two guns that had gone flying before rushing over to Reese, who so far had made no move to get up. Actually, he had made no move at all and that realization scared the hell out of Lionel. Reese might have a penchant for getting himself into hairy situations, but the guy was like Mr. Invincible. Nothing could faze him. Well, almost. A bullet to the brain would certainly do the trick and in a moment of panic Fusco wasn't sure if maybe the Fed hadn't squeezed off a shot before he had the pleasure of acquainting himself with the bottom of a fire extinguisher. But there was no blood or brain matter splattered on the wall behind where Reese was hunched, which Fusco took as a good sign.

Kneeling in front of Reese, Fusco called out Reese's name but received no response. Reese was hunched against the wall between the two metal sinks, his left leg wedged awkwardly underneath his right and his head limply hanging low with his chin on his chest.

Tentatively, Fusco reached forward searching for a pulse, expelling the breath he'd been holding when he found a strong one fluttering underneath his fingertips. "Thank God."

He noticed that Reese's breathing was off. Short, shallow gasps. Pulling aside the lapels of John's dress jacket revealed two holes with fresh burn marks in John's white dress shirt right smack in the middle of his chest. "Oh shit." Cursed Fusco and he frantically ripped open Wonderboy's shirt to find the mangled remains of the two bullets firmly imbedded within the protective layers of Reese's bulletproof vest.

As if on cue Reese's head jerked and he groaned and his eyelids began to flutter. "Hey there." Fusco said, gently slapping Reese's cheeks as it looked like his eyelids were losing their fight against gravity.

John groaned again and Fusco could relate all too well to what it felt like, still vividly remembering the agony he had found himself in after waking up on the cold asphalt of the road to Oyster Bay with two bullets stuck inside his vest, courtesy of the same lunatic Fusco now found himself relieved to still be among the living. Life did have strange twists and turns, but it didn't stop Lionel from feeling just a little bit of satisfaction that Karma had come through for him at least this once. "Hurts like a bitch, doesn't it?"

Reese's eyelids stayed open after the third slap and he leveled a glare at Fusco from underneath hooded eyes. "Can't. Breathe. Fusco." Reese barely managed to get the words out between the painful gasps he attempted to take, dark spots already back dancing within his vision again.

Fusco made short work with the remaining buttons of Reese's shirt, ripping it open all the way to get better access to loosen the velcro straps on either side of Reese's torso and shoulders. John's breathing improved immediately after the pressure on his chest decreased but it still hurt like a bitch to fill his lungs and he grimaced in pain as he tried taking a deep breath. Or any kind of breath for that matter.

"Anything broken?" Fusco asked, actually sounding concerned and like he cared. John, who had squeezed his eyes shut, just nodded his head in affirmation.

After checking over his shoulder to make sure the gunman was still out for the count, Fusco turned back regarding Reese's face, which was contorted in pain. Lionel knew the guy was really hurting when he allowed his impassive mask to slip off his face like that and felt already sorry for what they had to do next. "Listen, we really have to get out of here. Do you think you can stand?"

John didn't have the faintest clue if he could stand and in all honesty he didn't really want to try. His chest was killing him and if he didn't know any better, he would never have guessed that breathing was such a vital process in keeping his body alive considering how much each breath increased the fiery agony. Ever tough, he cracked open his eyes and croaked "Yeah."

Fusco hoisted him more or rather less gently onto his feet, keeping a steadying hand on his shoulder until the room stopped spinning, the flashing stars in his vision toned down their brightness, his breathing returned back to almost normal and his swaying subsided. Just then Reese got his first look at Hersh on the floor, out cold the restroom door hanging crookedly on its hinges and its wood splintered. John's eyebrows rose, his voice barely above a whisper. "Wow, Lionel, I'm impressed."

"Yeah, it means so much coming from you." Lionel mumbled less than enthusiastically as he wound his right arm around Reese's waist, ignoring the smirk on the other man's pale face. "C'mon. Let's go, before your boss has a heart attack."

_To be continued …_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_"C'mon. Let's go, before your boss has a heart attack."_

Fusco's voice rang out through the loudspeakers at the library. Only he didn't know that what he probably meant as a joke wasn't that far off from the truth. Finch's heart was racing, going at least a hundred miles an hour, fueled by copious amounts of adrenalin coursing through his blood stream. Even though this had not been Reese's first close call (although his closest to date) Finch had still been left a nervous wreck. He'd never get used to these kinds of situations, but he wasn't sure if getting used to watching your friend being faced with life-and-death situations was such a desirable achievement after all.

He watched as Detective Fusco and Mr. Reese navigated the impromptu obstacle course on their way to the restroom's exit, noting the Detective taking the brunt of John's weight. Finch knew Reese would try brushing off this encounter and his sustained injuries as a triviality later on. But judging by the way he let himself be supported by the Detective - and the occasional hiss of pain John wasn't quite able to suppress - Finch was pretty sure that his injuries, though not life-threatening, were anything but trivial.

After checking all the surveillance cameras in their vicinity to make sure that no other surprises were awaiting these two outside the restroom or on their way to the Detective's car, Finch sent Fusco a text with Dr. Mandani's address and the instructions to drop Mr. Reese off at that address - no matter what he was going to have to say about it

Following their uneven progress through the crowd, Finch couldn't help but marvel at the Detective's courage. Harold practically had had a front row seat to what almost ended up being John Reese's execution. Instead, Detective Fusco had come through for them. Again.

Finch figured he owed the Detective an apology. Not that he would ever admit that much to the Detective's face, but still. Back when Mr. Reese was working to turn Lionel Fusco into an asset, Harold had been far from convinced that it was a good idea; nor had he been able to see any attributes in the portly Detective that he thought would contribute to their endeavor in any way. However Mr. Reese had, and not for the first time Harold was glad that he had.

At first the Detective had understandably not seemed all too happy or too eager about the arrangement, because ... well, it _was_ based purely on blackmail. But now - despite all Fusco's grousing and seeming reluctance - Harold easily saw through the act, having realized the Detective actually enjoyed working for them. Most of the time, anyway.

Finch kept an eye on them until they disappeared inside a surveillance blind spot, noting with relief that it seemed like Reese wasn't relying on the Detective's support as much as anymore.

They must have been nearing the car, because Fusco dismissed Reese's line about being able to drive himself with a sarcastic _"Yeah, right"_. Rustling on the line cued Finch in to the fact that Fusco was pulling out his phone and after a pause Fusco sighed and said resignedly, _"Seems like you are going to the doctor."_

Reese's grumbled reply was drowned out by the noises of the phone being stuffed back deep within Fusco's coat pocket.

Meanwhile, Finch went back to check on Hersh. He was still lying on the floor unconscious, just as Fusco and Reese had left him and Harold found that weirdly satisfying. He was startled by an unusually outspoken and highly accusing _"Ouch!"_ from Mr. Reese, and worry for his employee immediately returned full force.

_"Oh, I just saved your ass"_, Finch heard Fusco say, clearly annoyed. _"Quit whining."_

At that Harold couldn't help but smile. Yes, indeed. Detective Fusco had become a very useful, resourceful and - at least by Finch - valued asset in helping him keep his sometimes overly reckless employee alive and in one piece.

Who would have thought?

_The End_

**Author's note:** Thank you all for reading!

The amazing RadioShack84 wrote an Epilogue to this story. Go to her profile and check it out!


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